


love connections and other works of art

by plumcoloredview



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: F/F, First Kiss, Fluff, Overthinking, a journey through art, meet cute, sasha is an oblivious fool in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24857707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumcoloredview/pseuds/plumcoloredview
Summary: Sasha Velour becomes infatuated with a mural on the side of a building. That's not the only thing she's infatuated with.
Relationships: Shea Couleé/Sasha Velour
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	love connections and other works of art

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea and just ran with it. I hope y'all enjoy it!

“Ma’am? Ma’am, I am so sorry, but my boss wants to know why you’re loitering.” 

Sasha flushed, becoming painfully aware of how long she had stared at the mural on the side of this building. The mural was captivatingly colorful and practically pulsed with geometric shapes that were just abstract enough to draw in the viewer with the desire to discover what they were. However, even after staring at the mural for upwards of ten minutes on her way to work, Sasha could not determine their meaning. At one moment, the shapes became silhouettes of dancers, at another an architectural landscape, and at yet another, angular clouds.

Upon tearing her eyes from the wall and spinning around to face the chiding voice, Sasha’s pale complexion deepened to a strawberry red as she laid eyes on a truly stunning woman. Her deep, creamy skin glinted under the sunlight, long, tight curls piled on her head’s right side. Her mouth formed a smirk as Sasha stared, but even with that smug expression, the lady looked beautiful. A pink blazer paired with a cobalt blue skirt usually wouldn’t seem professional, but with her stature and poise, she looked expensive and unique.

Sasha looked down instinctively, not wanting to ogle this poor woman any longer. However, staring at the concrete sidewalk only led Sasha’s eyes to a pair of frighteningly tall, pink stiletto pumps. Pumps which then connected to a pair of slender, toned, mile-long legs.

“Um.. girl? Are you good?” The woman asked. The question seemed to reflect concern, but the smirk had transformed into nothing short of a full, shit-eating grin. 

Good job, Sasha. You look great. Get yourself together.

Sasha steeled herself enough to meet the woman’s eyes.

_Talk about art. You can do that._

“I’m so sorry, I just was looking at this mural. The colors and composition are so wonderfully vibrant. The style speaks to traditional cubism, but the interplay of light, shade, and color reminds me of a Charles Demuth.” Sasha explained, eagerly gesticulating. Even then, she cringed slightly when her hand movements caused the pins littering her own blazer to rattle loudly. 

After a brief pause, the woman responded.

“Well, I’m happy you like it so much. In fact, do you want to meet who designed it?” 

“Absolutely! If you could give me a phone number, or an email, I’ll contact her. And I’ll get out of your hair, sorry about all that.”

“Oh, I’m not gonna go through all that trouble. You can just talk to me now.”

_Fuck_. Sasha was a goner.

“Really?” 

“Yes! Do I look like I’m playing?” 

“Oh my god...” Sasha muttered, the expression slipping from her lips. And upon seeing Sasha so flustered, this beautiful, perfect woman threw her head back in a full laugh. 

It was the most lovely laugh Sasha had ever heard. It sounded deep like thunder in the mountains, and it sounded warm like an embrace or a crackling fireplace. It sounded like all these things, and Sasha felt like she was experiencing all of them at once. Maybe this mystery woman of Sasha’s dreams was laughing at her, but she would be ridiculed at forever if it meant she got to hear that laugh. 

_Double fuck_.

“I’m Shea Couleé,” the woman said, sticking out her delicately manicured hand.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Couleé,” Sasha replied, earnestly (probably too much so) grabbing Shea’s hand and shaking it, “I’m Sasha Velour.”

“Oh, call me Shea. It’s Miss Couleé only if you nasty.”

Sasha felt more blood rise to her cheeks, opening her mouth to only remain silent. Shea pulled Sasha in slightly close, so her cheek practically touched Sasha’s ear. They were much too close for strangers, but for an enamored woman, perfectly fine. 

Whispering against Sasha’s ear, Shea muttered, “By all means, continue to call me Miss, then...”

Shea ( _damn her!_ ) let go of Sasha’s hand and stepped back into her original position.

“You know what, Sasha? Why don’t we talk about this,” Shea flippantly gestured to the mural, “over drinks later today?”

_How can she treat such a masterpiece so casually?_

“I’d love to do that, Shea.”

“Catch you later, Miss Velour,” Shea tossed the phrase over her shoulder, strutting back into the shop, leaving Sasha standing bug-eyed on the sidewalk.

As Sasha hurried away to work as initially intended, she could only focus on Shea’s breath on her ear and the weight of her hand on her wrist.

\-------------

Sasha’s job mostly consisted of staring at a screen for hours on end, so going out to the bar provided a nice change of pace. She enjoyed her job authoring write-ups of local art galleries, but the near-silence of the office and the polite hushed tones of artistic display spaces felt suffocating after long stretches. In places built on self-expression, the most primitive form had to wait until after work to shine. 

The additional mounting excitement and nervousness of Sasha’s meeting with Shea didn’t help with anything. Shea had slipped Sasha her business card before returning to her job, and all-day, Sasha couldn’t help but run her fingers over the cardstock to remind herself that the interaction that she had was real. 

While Sasha might typically reject the stereotype of the helpless, love-stricken woman (particularly when viewed through the eyes of men), Sasha felt like nothing short of François Boucher’s _The Love Letter_. Normally, she found the grazing animals, the flowers, the women swathed in layers of pastel silks to be patronizing and suffocating in its delicacy and adorable pleasantries. Sasha now could not relate more. Maybe her pastoral paradise could be a desk and ergonomic chair. Perhaps her love letter could be the business card of a beautiful stranger.

Even later, at the bar, Sasha’s fingers carefully traced the edge of the card. The repetitive motions felt soothing, although it was hard to calm the tidal wave of nervousness in her head. 

_What should I say? It’s been five minutes since 7:30. That’s normal. That’s fashionably late still. Was I supposed to change before I got here? Does she… like me?_

Sasha’s mind raced, but it kept getting stuck on that final question. Like a record player skipping over and over.

_It’s been ten minutes since when we agreed. She should be here. She won’t come. It’s a joke. I hope it won’t look strange if I just leave the bar alone when she doesn’t show up. She can’t like me. Could she like me?_

Sasha hooked and unhooked her heels on the rest of the barstool. She took a pen from her purse and began to draw on Shea’s business card.

_It’s been fifteen minutes. I’ve been duped. I should have known. It was too good to be true--_

“Sasha! Sorry I’m late.”

 _Triple fuck_.

Sasha needed to get used to how gorgeous Shea looked because constantly getting this flustered was frankly getting embarrassing. However, Shea wasn’t making it easy.

Shea had changed into a vibrant, pink, crushed velvet minidress that shone under the bar’s lights. As she approached Sasha at the bar, she smiled widely and met Sasha’s eyes. 

Putting her hand on Sasha’s back, Shea took the seat next to her.

“You wear pencil skirts to the club?” Shea asked, bemused eyes flickering from Sasha’s blouse to the aforementioned skirt.

“I didn’t have time to change, I’m sorry,” Sasha said, torn between her desire to examine how she looked and her desire to continue staring.

“No, it’s all good, girl! You look just stunning here as you did on the sidewalk today. So you wanted to talk about my mural?”

This casual, kind, and flirtatious manner kept throwing Sasha off her rhythm. One second she had her--very professional--thoughts and questions organized, and a whim, her thoughts were cast into the sea.

“Um, well, yes. I just thought your mural was so lovely and captivating. It captures such a specific artistic feeling, and I wanted… I wanted to know what your inspiration was?” Sasha forced the first part of the question out but gradually took a stride as her mind focused and settled itself once more on the topic at hand.

“I’ve always loved, like, cubism and the reduction of big things to more abstract shapes. I wanted to do that, but for something that was already semi-abstract, leave it up to the viewer. I love pop art and bright colors, and I figured, this’ll attract shoppers,” Shea leaned in, smiling again, “and some hot women.”

Sasha, to her delight, learned so much about Shea as the dinner continues. 

Shea hadn’t had formal painting or visual arts training, instead studying fashion and design. Her job at the store exists mostly to pay the bills, but she volunteered to do the mural for free. Shea loves pairing pastels and saturated colors. Shea likes savory foods more than sweet foods. Shea was raised in Chicago and moved to New York for school. Shea was single. Shea was very single.

As the conversation continued, Sasha found herself in turn revealing more and more about herself. Her love of Keith Haring’s _Unfinished Painting_ and Jean Michel-Basquiat’s _Untitled (Skull)_. Her dream of owning a gallery specializing in queer art. Her disdain for salty snacks. Her beloved dog Vanya. How she was single. Very single.

The conversation also served to distract Sasha from the copious amounts of alcohol she and Shea were consuming. Alcohol that loosened Sasha further and further, to the point that her inhibitions began to evaporate. 

“I’m glad that you liked my mural. If you hadn’t looked at it for so goddamned long, we wouldn’t have met,” Shea and Sasha both laughed, and as Shea rested her hand on Sasha’s shoulder, Sasha just looked at her.

Sasha had already heard the sound of Shea’s laugh, but being able to watch her laugh added an entirely new dimension to the experience. When Shea laughed, she’d throw her head back, tossing her long black curls. Her eyes would scrunch, and the light caught on her cheeks. 

God. Every part of her shone and sparkled. Just existing near her made Sasha feel strangely buoyant and pleasant. It felt like she got to witness someone massively special and joyous and who, in turn, made Sasha feel special herself.

“What are you thinking about?”

“How beautiful you are when you laugh. And smile. And do most anything.”

“I like the way you talk, Sasha”

“That I do it about you?”

“No, bitch!” Shea says, giggling, “Your voice and the phrases you use. I love it. I feel like I’m listening to a hot, hipster audiobook. You don’t think that’s creepy, right?” 

“I don’t think it’s creepy. I don’t think I can think ill of you at all right now”

Shea laughs again.

“I like you a lot Sasha,” Shea says. Suddenly, she stands up and grabs Sasha’s hand. “Dance with me?” Shea asks, nodding her head to the masses of people on the main dance floor.

Sasha eagerly followed Shea, and as the lights and alcohol blurred the edges of her vision and the writhing bodies bumped into her own, Sasha couldn’t look away from the vision of Shea’s beautiful hand clutching her own. That beautiful, warm grasp. Even in a sea of stimulation, the only thing that mattered was Shea’s hand.

After making it to an open spot, Shea dropped Sasha’s hand and they both began to dance.

When Sasha danced, she danced mostly with her hands and upper body, in a style some might call “stilted” and the more charitable might call “interpretive”. Sasha liked to claim that it came from a slightly limited range of motion caused by a pencil skirt. While that might have been somewhat true, Sasha preferred not to dwell on the fact that she had turned up going to parties in exchange for spoken word poetry nights.

Shea, meanwhile, danced like water. She kicked, jumped, and shook, but each movement blended into each other. Her curls had been tucked into a ponytail, but still swished back and forth as she moved, emphasizing her movements. 

What changed?

The music didn’t slow down.

Maybe it was Shea saying that she “loved Sasha’s ‘dad dancing’”.

Maybe it was the lights shifting to an electric blue color that shone on Shea’s hair and skin, making her look like an ethereal vision.

Maybe it was Shea pausing from her dance to touch the assortment of pins on Sasha’s blazer, holding each one up to the light and pausing to read it.

Maybe nothing changed.

But Sasha felt so wonderful, so magical that she threw her arms around Shea’s neck. The music still pounded and shook her bones, but all Sasha knew was that she wanted to see Shea’s face. Wanted to feel it.

Lifting her hand from Shea’s neck, Sasha traced Shea’s cheekbones. The curve of her ear. Her smile lines. 

Shea wrapped her arms around Sasha’s waist, rubbing small circles with her thumb, delicate circles that Sasha could feel through her skirt. As Sasha gently ran her thumb along Shea’s cheek, she saw Shea’s eyes flutter as she let out a large sigh.

Sasha felt like Henri Matisse’s _Icarus_. So obviously plummeting at lightspeed into this love, but for a brief moment in the unknown, the uncertain, silhouetted against the sky.

Wingless and among yellow stars. The only aspect of her being, a red, glowing heart. A brief moment of glory.

Shea’s sparkling eyes. 

A brief moment.

Shea’s smile. 

_A brief moment._

They had danced around it long enough.

Sasha leaned upward, catching Shea’s lips with her own. Her hands moved downward, clutching Shea’s back, pressing Shea towards her. Shea sighed, and Sasha could feel the corners of her lips move upwards. 

“Why?” Sasha whispered breathily onto Shea’s lips. “Why me? Why not anyone else?”

“Because no one else blushes so profusely at my words in their ears. No one else wants to talk about the philosophical implications of French impressionism on gender roles. No one else is a beautiful, unique, unibrowed and pin-covered woman who looks at my mural like it’s the greatest piece they’ve ever seen and then looks at me like I’m, like I’m some kinda magical being.

I wanna witness you, Sasha. I wanna witness you all the time.”

As they held each other close, Sasha put her racing mind to rest. Resting her head on Shea’s shoulder, she felt the music and sweat of the club gently fade away, replaced by the sound of two beating hearts. 


End file.
